A/N: Okay, so I said that this would be the last chapter...but it's probably not, considering the way I ended it might leave you guys wanting more. So, chapter 4 might come within the next week or two, depending on how exams go. Thank you so much to all those who reviewed, I love reading them. Enjoy chapter 3!

The next night, Mark awoke at 4:53 to the sound of violent coughing. He ventured silently into Roger's room after twenty minutes of denying that he wasn't dreaming and that Roger was practically hacking up a lung in the next room. When he reached Roger's room, the musician in question was doubled over on his bed, a look of pain and pure fear etched into his features. Mark rushed to his side, soothing him with gentle touches to his back and whispered promises in his ear, promises that Mark knew he'd have to break eventually, but that would serve his purpose for now.

Two nights after that, Mark awoke at 3:24 to the sound of someone being violently sick in the bathroom. He hesitated for only a few minutes, not denying this time, just composing himself, before padding into the bathroom. Roger was hunched over, dry heaving into the toilet as his shoulders shuddered and his sweat coated hair fell limply into his face. When Roger noticed Mark standing in the doorway, he slumped against the sink, smiling weakly.

"Bad food."

"You haven't eaten"

"Sure. I had some cereal this morning."

"Food poisoning from Cap 'N Crunch, huh?"

Roger didn't get to respond, for another wave of nausea had taken him in its grip and left him panting over the bowl again. Mark sighed and knelt down, rubbing Roger's back as he heaved again. Two hours later, Roger was totally exhausted, leaning against Mark as his eyes drooped and his chest heaved. Mark couldn't decide whether to risk the trip to Roger's room or not. In the end, Mark laid flat out on the bathroom floor, offering his stomach as a pillow for a very sick guitarist.

Two days after that, Mark didn't sleep at all. Instead, he sat in Roger's bed and calmed his best friend when the fever dreams took over. The next night, Mark went straight to Roger's room, where the two roommates sat on Roger's bed, neither of them in the right mindset to sleep.

"You really should try, Roger," Mark said, twisting the blanket in his lap between his hands. He looked at Roger, how Roger's hands shook as he held his guitar, to the point where he couldn't really play much. How Roger's eyes looked sunken in against his ghastly pale skin. "What will it hurt?"

"Nothing," Roger said in his too-raspy voice, not looking up from his guitar, where he fingered soundless notes. "But I'm just gonna wake up two hours from now puking or coughing or shivering……what's the point?"

"But what will it hurt?"

Roger sighed, setting his guitar aside and folding his hands in his lap and staring down at them. "I'll dream again."

Mark's heart clenched. He tried to meet Roger's eyes, to no avail. "What do you dream about?"

Roger shrugged. "A lot of times I don't remember. Sometimes……sometimes I do."

Mark sat silently, waiting patiently for Roger to continue. As he waited, he noticed and odd looking mark on Roger's face. It looked red, irritated, scab-like, and out of place. Tears started to well in Mark's eyes and he averted his eyes, staring pointedly at the wall.

"Sometimes I dream about dying. About taking my last breaths and leaving everyone in the hospital behind. Seeing Mimi again, Mimi and Angel. And then sometimes, after I see them, I get sent straight to hell." At this, Roger smirked. "Lord knows I'd deserve it."

"Roger," Mark started, but Roger continued.

"If anyone's goin' to heaven, Mark, it's you."

"Says the atheist," Mark said with a forced smile, feeling the presence of even more threatening tears at those words. He looked up to find Roger staring right in his eyes, and the smile faded. "You don't mean that"

Roger smiled. "Sure I do. I mean, what have I ever done that's worthy of that?"

"What have I?"

"Everything," Roger said, not breaking his gaze. "You stayed with me through it all. Through everything. I pushed you away, cussed at you, shut you out……hell, Mark, I even left. And you still didn't give up on me."

Mark let a tear fall, not bothering to brush it away. Roger, frowning, looked away suddenly.

"I…..I don't think I ever thanked you for that. For anything. I just thought that I should tell you."

"You didn't have to," Mark said, resting his hand over Roger's. He found it to be startlingly cold, and picked up Roger's other hand, taking them both and rubbing them between his own. "You're too cold."

"You're practically a saint, Mark."

Mark laughed, another tear breaking free. "Yeah, and that would be a compliment if……"

"I love you."

Mark stopped rubbing Roger's hands, his breath catching in his throat and his body beginning to tremble. He didn't dare look at Roger's face, for fear that he wouldn't find what he was hoping to find, what he'd been hoping to find for so long, even though he denied it……or fear that he would find it, and then what would he do?

And then, suddenly, realization hit Mark like a semi in the chest. Roger, no matter how much they tried to deny it, was dying. True, Roger had been in a perpetual state of "dying" for a while, but now, it was close, so close, leaving hardly any time to say what hadn't been said, what needed to be said.

There was a moment's hesitation, and inner battle in Mark's head. One side spoke of a friendship that could be sorely tested in the very days when it mattered most. The other side spoke of something beyond friendship, of a lifetime of regret after he was gone because of things left unsaid.

Mark looked up then, and saw that Roger had tears in his eyes as well. He freed one of his hands from Roger's, bringing it up to a stubble covered cheek to caress lovingly. His thumb stroked the skin for a moment before stopping, the hand moving to Roger's chin, to lift that face, to meet those radiant eyes.

"I love you, too."

And then lips met in the softest of contact, brushing, hovering, unsure and scared. Mark heard Roger's heavy breathing, could feel them both shaking. His heart was beating faster than ever before. He backed away slightly, pressing a hand against Roger's chest to feel that his heart was working overtime as well. He smiled.

Then, Roger's lips were on his, not entirely forceful, yet still passionate, loving, trying to convey a hoard of emotions in one single action. Mark was caught up in the whirlwind of it all, his hand moving to the back of Roger's neck, stroking his hair and drinking it all in……

But then Roger stopped suddenly, pulling away and drawing in a huge breath. To Mark's horror, it was let out as a choked sob, followed by another as Roger looked away and crossed his arms over his chest as if he were cold. Mark was struck silent, wondering what had happened as Roger refused to meet his gaze, more tears tracking down his face. Mark rested a hand on his knee.

"Roger? What's wrong? Was that……was that wrong? Was that not what you wanted?"

Roger shook his head, letting out another sob and falling forward into Mark's chest, twisting his hands in the filmmaker's shirt.

"I'm sorry, Mark, I'm so sorry," he sobbed, burying his face in Mark's shoulder. Mark rubbed his back gently.

"Why? What's the matter? There's nothing to be sorry about."

"I'm selfish, I'm so selfish, so sorry……"

"Hey," Mark said, taking Roger's face in his hands and brushing tears away with his thumbs. "You're not selfish. Why would you think that?"

"Because," Roger's breath hitched in his throat as he fought to calm down. "Because I wanted this for so long, and now……and now I'm going to have to leave you and it's not fair to you, it's not fair, but I wanted this, and now you do, and now, now……"

"Shhhh," Mark whispered comfortingly. "Shhhh, it's alright. That doesn't make you selfish. I wanted it, too, Roger. I wouldn't have kissed you if I didn't want it."

"But now? Do you want it now, now that I'm……"

"Shhh. Of course. Nothing's changed."

"We only have……"

"It doesn't matter."

"But you'll……"

"I love you."

Roger shook his head, wiping at his eyes.

"It's not fair."

"I know. But when have we ever played fair, huh?"

At this, Roger smiled, the last of his sobs fading out as he leaned in to kiss Mark again. Mark could tell through the kiss that Roger was emotionally and physically drained, the musician's breath hitching against Mark's lips. He led them to lie down gently, wrapping Roger in his arms. Roger curled in to him, burying himself in Mark's embrace, content to think that for now, everything was perfect.

For the first time in a long time, both Roger and Mark slept through the night.